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SCENES  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD 


by 
CHARLES   ELMER    JENNEY. 


There  is  many  a  simple  song-  one  hears 
Not  for  itself— for  the  buried  years." 

— Richard  Burton. 


FRESNO, 
REPUBLICAN    PUBLISHING    Co. 

PUBLISHERS  v 

1900 


COPYRIGHT     1000 

BY 

CHARLES    ELMER    JENNEY. 

ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 

I  desire  to  thank  The  Ladies'  World,  The 
American  Agriculturist,  and  the  Farm  Journal 
for  their  kindness  in  allowing  me  to  include 
in  this  volume  poems  first  published  in  their 
columns. 

CHARLES  ELMER  JENNEY. 


35535 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


I.  The  Orchard, 17 

II.  The  Meadow, 21 

III.  The  Deep  Tang-led  Wildwood,      .         .  23 

IV.  Priscilla, 25 

V.  "  When  the  Frogs  begin  to  Peep,"       .  2o 

VI.  Ladies'  Slippers, 29 

VII.  Boyhood, 30 

VIII.  Dandelions, 33 

IX.  The  Redwing's  Nest,     ....  34 

X.  Apple  Blossoms,          .....  37 

XI.  When  Grandfather  Swore,            .         .  38 

XII.  The  Bay  Path's  End,         ....  41 

XIII.  The  Milkmaid          .....  45 

XIV.  The  Catacombs             .         .         .         .         '  47 
XV.  Faithfulness, 48 

XVI.  An  Air  Castle,              51 

XVII.  Beautiful  Moonlight,      ....  52 

XVIII.  The  Hay-makers, 53 

XIX.  The  Heart  of  Summer,          ...  54 

XX.  Red  Raspberries, 57 

XXI.  Wadin' 59 

XXII.  In  Haying-  Time,          .....  61 

XXIII.  Sylvan  Wilds,      '•'.  .....  62 

XXIV.  Indian  Corn, 66 

XXV.  The  Mowers'  Song-,        ....  67 

XXVI.  The  Bumble  Bee, 68 

XXVII.  Shall  We  Forg-et  ?           ....  70 


XXVIII.  In  Memoriam, 73 

XXIX.  The  Cry  to  the  Sea,            ...  74 

XXX.  Beyond  the  Known,          ....  76 

XXXI.  In  Berry  Time,             ....  79 

XXXII.  Indian  Pipe,               81 

XXXIII.  His  Daily  Bread,         ....  82 

XXXIV.  The  Abandoned  Farm             ...  84 
XXXV.  The  King-fisher,            ....  86 

XXXVI.  The  Villag-e  in  the  Pines,               .         .  89 

XXXVII.  Old  Fashioned  Thing's,             .         .  93 

XXXVIII.  "The  Maiden," 94 

XXXIX.  Golden-Rod, 97 

XL,.  New  England,            .  98 

XLJ.  Jack  Frost's  Retouching-,           .         .  101 

XLII.  The  Little  Brown  House  on  the  Hill,  102 

XLJil.  Robinson  Crusoe,         ....  106 

XLIV.  Roma, 107 

XLV.  November,              .  108 

XLVI.  The  Four  Winds,              ....  Ill 

XI/VII.  The  Reveler 115 

XLVIII.  Sparks  in  the  Chimney,         ...  116 

XLIX.  A  Seaside  Village,              ...  119 


IO 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

And  a  River  Winds  Down  to  the  Sea,         .         Frontispiece 

The  Milky  Way  of  a  Summer  Day,         ....  20 

A  Well  Worn  Path  in  a  Woodland  Way,           .         .  27 

"  Some  Mossy  Bank  my  Couch  must  be,"              .         .  31 

The  Old  Oaken  Bucket, 36 

A  Winding-  Road  that  Arched  a  Winding-  Stream,       .  40 

And  When  the  Shadows  Softly  Weave,             .         .  44 

The  Oriole  Swing's  from  its  Leaf-tipped  Branch,         .  50 

Where  Pickerel  Lurk  Below  the  Bridg-e,           .         .  55 

Just  the  Woods  and  Water,  and  You  and  I,  63 

Shall  we  Forg-et  ?         .         .         .         .    .     .         .         .  71 

When  Summer  Days  Sleep  in  a  Haze,            ...  78 

The  Echoing-  Wood, 87 

The  Wheel  that  Never  Turns  Again,     .         .  .91 

God's  First  and  Second  Temples,      ....  96 

Lover's  Bridg-e, 100 

And  the  Wind  Whistles  Bitter  and  Chill,          .         .  103 
The  Woodman's  and  the  Rabbit's  Track,      .         .         .109 

Bitter  Cold  on  the  Barren  Lea,           ....  113 

Beneath  an  Arch  of  Elms,  Grass-bordered  Streets  118 

Down  Where  the  Waves  Roll  Up  Along-  the  Strand,  123 


II 


TO  MATTAPOISETT- 
and  TO  THOSE 

Who  love  the  fields,  the  grass  and  flowers, 
The  greenwood  tree,  the  vine  clad  bowers, 
The  piney  balm,  the  April  showers 

That  start  the  leaves  ; 

The  song  of  birds  that  wake  Morn's  swoon, 
The  drone  of  bees  at  dreamy  noon, 
The  trill  of  frogs  unto  the  moon 

Of  vernal  eves  ; 


vail,  N 
til-/ 


Who  love  the  charming  tints  of  Fall, 
The  browning  leaf  on  tree  and  wall, 
And  Nature's  golden  crown  of  all, 

The  harvest  cheer ; 

The  whistle  that  the  wild  winds  blow, 
The  fretted  ghost-work  of  the  snow, 
The  blazing  back-log's  fitful  glow, 

When  Winter's  here ; 

Whose  youthful  feet  the  cow-paths  led, 
Whom  berry-bush  and  orchard  fed, 
For  whom  the  hay-stack  made  a  bed 
Airy  and  broad  ; 


Who  worshipped  first  in  woodland  nave, 
Choired  by  the  songsters'  sweetest  stave, 
To  whom  the  brooks  their  lessons  gave 
Nor  spared  the  rod  ; 

Who,  exiled  to  the  marts  of  trade, 
Still  in  some  heart-cell,  undisplayed, 
Like  secret  locket,  rich  inlaid, 

A  memory  wear 

Of  woodlands  where  you  used  to  roam, 
Of  meadows  necked  with  daisy  foam,  — 
A  place  your  lips  have  still  called  Home, 

And  will  fore'er. 


To  You,  whom  Time  ma}^  not  allow 
Your  book  of  verse  beneath  the  bough, 
But  who,  in  fancy,  then  and  now 

Would  Nature  woo, 
I  dedicate  this  book  of  verse, 
Though  you  may  wish  it  were  more  terse, 
I  hope  you'll  say  it  might  be  worse, 

When  you  are  through. 

CHARLES  ELMER  JENNEY 


SCENES  OF  MY  CHILDHOOD. 


I. 
THE  ORCHARD. 

Gray  old  trunks  and  gnarled  old  branches, 

Veterans  of  the  stormy  years, 
Tried  by  winter's  avalanches, 

Scarred  by  Jove's  electric  spears  ; 
Rent  and  gaping  ranks  remind  of 

Comrades  fallen  by  the  way  ; 
Still  the  Springtime  bugle  wind  of 

Muster  finds  them  in  array. 

When  the  leaf-buds  bursting,  send  a 

Tremor  forth  upon  the  breeze, 
Covering  with  a  verdant  splendor 

All  the  low  old  apple-trees, 
How  the  heart  with  gladness  thrilling, 

Welcomes  them  to  life  once  more  ; 
How  the  birds  come  back  a-trilling 

Home,  from  some  far  foreign  shore. 

Bluebirds  in  their  hollows  nesting, 

Red-breast  robins  all  the  day 
Singing,  chirping,  scolding,  jesting, 

Noisy  as  the  tufted  jay. 
Showers  of  blossoms  softly  sifting 

Fleck  the  close-cropped  turf  below,— 
Snow  of  June, — its  pink-tinged  drifting 

Stolen  from  late  sunset's  glow. 

Here  when  summer  days  were  mellow 
Branches  curved  with  goodly  prize,— 

Russet,  red,  and  green,  and  yellow,— 
Fairer  than  met  Eden 's  eyes  ; 


Astrakhan  and  Summer  Sweeting, 
Red  and  gold,  the  sweet  and  sour, 

Fragrant-scented,  toothsome  eating, 
Brightened  many  a  childhood  hour. 

Every  breeze  exacts  a  tithing, 

And  the  gruff  old  Autumn  gales 
Take  a  toll  that's  paid  with  writhing, 

All  for  Charity's  avails. 
Russet,  Baldwin,  deftly  gleaning, 

Scattered  o'er  the  orchard  floors  ; 
Pippin  and  Rhode  Island  Greening 

Harvested  with  ruthless  force. 

Heaped  up  baskets  which  the  men  shall 

Come  with  team  to  homeward  draw. 
What  a  store  of  fun  potential,— 

Cider  sweet,  sipped  through  a  straw  ; 
Bins  a' heap  in  cob  webbed  cellar  ; 

Barrels  freighted  with  good  cheer  ; 
Seeds  to  aid  the  fortune-teller  ; 

Spicy  pies  to  boyhood  dear. 

Pictures  of  the  curl-strung  tow-string 

Hung  in  many  a  browning  row  ; 
Odors  of  the  apples  roasting 

Near  the  hearth-side's  warming  glow 
Memory's  grasp,  though  skies  grow  wider, 

Years  nor  leagues  shall  not  release. 
Here's  a  toast,  in  their  own  cider, 

To  the  gnarled  old  apple-trees. 


18 


II. 

THE  MEADOW* 

<(  '  Rich  man,  poor  man,  beggar  man,  thief,' 

Which  do  you  'spose  t'will  be  ? 
'  Doctor,  lawyer,  Indian  chief,' 

Oh,  he  will  marry  me. 
There  goes  a  butterfly,  yellow  and  black, 

Isn't  he  pretty,   oh  my  ! 
Where  is  my  hat  ?     Oh,  here  on  my  back. 

Come  on.     We'll  catch  it.     Let's  try. 
There  !     It's  flown  off  and  over  the  wall. 

Aren't  you  tired  ?     Let's  rest. 
We'll  hide  here  where  the  grass  is  tall, 

And  play  we  are  birds  in  a  nest. 
Ugh,  there's  a  bug  right  down  by  my  toe. 

No,  it's  a  cricket.     I  say, 
Wont  the  men  scold  when  they  come  here  to  mow, 

Because  we  have  trampled  the  hay. 
Say,  can  you  make  such  a  loud  squealy  noise 

With  a  blade  of  grass  and  your  thumbs  ? 
I  learned  to  do  it  from  some  of  the  boys. 

This  one,  I  tell  you  just  hums. 
I'm  going  to  roll  you  over  and  over. 

Now  don't  kick  out  your  feet. 
O,  see,  here  is  a  four  leaf  clover  ; 

Who's  the  first  boy  I'll  meet?" 


21 


Two  little  pinafored  gypsy  maids 

Out  in  the  meadow  green, 
Rollicking,  romping,  making  raids, 

Treasures  of  Summer  to  glean, 
Astrologers  gay  in  the  warm  mid-day 

Of  the  star-flecked  daisy  field 
Read  fortunes  bright  by  the  rays  of  white 

And  the  disks  of  the  golden  shield. 
One  by  one  as  the  petals  fall 

From  their  fingers  brief  caress 
A  fate  is  sealed  beyond  recall 

To  burden,  or  bear,  or  bless. 
One  for  happiness,  one  for  grief, 

One  for  you  and  me, 
Rich  man,  poor  man,  beggar  man,  thief," 

Which  do  you  'spose  'twill  be. 


22 


III. 

THE  DEEP  TANGLED  WILDWOOD. 

Cone-hung  pine-tops  gently  swaying 

High  o'er  pink  arbutus  gems  ; 
Red-barked  birchlings,  lithe,  a-straying 

From  age-silvered  parent  stems  ; 
Soft- furred  pussy  willows  sleeping, 

Alder  thickets,  brake  embossed, 
All  in  kinship  bound  by  creeping 

Round-leafed  green  briar,  emerald-glossed. 

Here  when  Spring  unwraps  amid  a 

Sense-entrancing,  perfumed  gale, 
Jack-in-pulpits  prim  consider 

On  the  lilies  of  the  vale  ; 
Stars  of  Bethlehem  a-twinkling 

In  a  green,  moss-clouded  sky, 
Where  a  tiny  brook  goes  tinkling, 

And  the  ferns  dwell,  frail  and  shy. 

Here  the  cat-bird's  loud  locution 

Midst  the  sweet  azalea's  spray 
Warns  inquisitive  intrusion 

From  its  bowered  nest  away. 

23 


Here  when  evening  drapes  its  umber 
Bob  Whites  to  the  firs  repair, 

Sharing  secrecy  and  slumber 
With  the  silent-footed  hare. 

Here  are  berry  bushes  weighted 

In  late  Summer's  ripening  hours  ; 
Twining  grape-vines  purple-freighted 

High  o'erhang  the  leafy  showers  ; 
Acorns  rattle  from  the  white  oak  ; 

All  for  Nature's  little  men  ;— 
Autumn's  orchard  to  delight  folk, 

Dwellers  of  the  glebe  and  glen. 


IV. 
PRISCILLA. 

Sitting-  spinning-  in  the  gloaming  of  the  quaint  old  long  ago, 
Hearts  a-wiiining  with  the  homing  to  thy  cheeks  of  healthy 

glow, 

Maiden  of  the  Pilgrim  training-,  in  fair  Fancy's  hall  of  art, 
In  no  tints  be-marred  or  waning,  hangs  thy  picture  all  apart. 
High  above  thee,  herb-hung  rafter,  odorous  of  Summer  fields, 
Echoes  back  thy  cheery  laughter,  when  to  mirth  thy  musing 

yields  ; 
Or,  when  through  the  open  door-way,  from  thy  distaff  strays 

thy  g-lance, 

Off  upon  a  pensive  foray,  far  away,  mayhap,  as  France. 
Though  the  forest  shadows  slanting,  almost  reach  the  oaken 

sill, 

And  the  plaintive  call,  enchanting,  may  not  be  the  whip- 
poor-will, 

But  a  lurking  Narragarisett's  signal  to  an  ambushed  foe, 
Portent  of  a  midnight  transit  o'er  the  settlement  of  woe, — 
Though  the  darkness  sifting  slowly,  in  thy  Puritanic  creed, 
May  suggest  the  dark,  unholy  Superstition's  demon  breed, — 
Naught  of  discontent  or  terror  clouds  or  daunts  thy  vision 

clear  ; 

In  thy  generation's  error,  things  unknown  to  fight  or  fear 
Thine  no  share,  but  in  the  doing-,  ready  hand  and  heart  and 

mind ; 

And  the  leg-end  of  thy  wooing  is  the  fable  of  thy  kind. 
Chaos,  thy  distaff  flax-laden  :     Destiny  wound  on  thy  reel. 
As  I  see  thee,  Plymouth  maiden,  sitting-  at  thy  spinning-wheel, 
Thrills  each  nerve  with  new  ambition,  in  a  far  connected 

heart, 
To  preserve  the  high  traditions  of  the  past  of  which  thou  art. 


V. 
"  WHEN  THE  FROGS  BEGIN  TO  PEEP/' 

Snows  have  melted  in  the  shadows, 

Creek  and  pond  to  flood  are  swelled, 

Buds  are  tipping  out  the  willows, 
Hill  and  vale  no  more  are  held 
In  the  bonds  the  frost-sprites  weld. 

Listen,  hear  the  frogs  a-peeping  : 
Through  the  silence  everywhere 

April  showers  of  tinkling  music 

Spattering  o'er  the  twilight  fair, 
•^       Blurring  all  the  evening  air. 

Like  some  olden  fairy  legend, 

Or  the  song  that  mother  sung, 

Rings  again  to-night  the  vespers, 
As  in  days  of  yore  they  rung,— 
Days  when  you  and  I  were  young. 

What  is  it,  vague,  and  long-wished  for 
That  they  stir  in  us  again  ? 

Things  aspired,  or  dreams  awakened. 

Though  their  trill  has  told  since  then 
Two  score  Springtimes,  ay,  and  ten. 

Once  it  meant  the  Spring  of  lifetime, 

Sent  the  warm  young  blood  a-leaping  : 

Now,  'tis  stillness  of  life's  twilight 

When  we  hear  the  frogs  a-peeping, 
And  we  long  for  peaceful  sleeping. 


26 


A  WELL  WORN   PATH   IN  A  WOODLAND  WAY. 


VI. 
LADIES'  SLIPPERS* 

Aha,  now  I  shall  marry  thee, 

My  darling  Cinderella. 
Fair  fortune  has  been  kind  to  me, 
And  guides  my  wistful  eyes  to  see 

The  prize  of  which  I  tell  her. 

Beside  this  sparkling  spring,  so  clear, 

Just  where  I  kneel  to  sip  a 
Refreshing  draught  of  nectar  dear, 
(  Now  who'd  have  thought  to  find  it  here  ?  ) 

I  spy  my  lady's  slipper. 

Beneath  the  leaves,  by  sun.  scarce  lit, 
Upon  the  wood-floor's  level, — 

A  scene  for  elfin  dancers  fit, — 

Some  fairy  must  have  stolen  it 
To  hold  a  midnight  revel. 

A  dream  of  pink,  of  silken  sheen, 
With  nicest  taste  displayed  in 

Gay  little  bows  of  fluttering  green  ; 

(  Was  prettier  slipper  ever  seen 
Upon  the  foot  of  maiden  ?  ). 

As  finely  veined  as  the  dear  feet 

From  which  it  has  been  missing  ; 

Almost  as  shapely  and  petite, — 

In  fact,  withal  so  very  sweet 

I  can't  refrain  from  kissing. 

I'll  quickly  to  my  sweetheart  bring 

This  slipper  meet  for  Venus — 
'  Twill  fit  her  like  a  wedding  ring, 
I'll  marry  her  this  very  Spring, 

And  none  shall  come  between  us. 


VII. 
BOYHOOD. 

The  eyes  of  nig-ht  shed  kindly  light 

Upon  his  little  curly  head, 
And  darkness  teems  with  pleasant  dreams, 

Tucked  safe  and  snug-  within  his  bed. 
The  eyes  of  day  smile  on  his  play 

And  read  for  him  a  fortune  bright ; 
Sweet  innocence  his  heart  doth  fence, 

As  theirs  of  gold  are  hedged  with  white. 

The  birds  and  bees,  the  rustling  trees, 

Are  his  alone,  to  have  and  hold  : 
No  narrow  bounds  the  land  surrounds 

Where  reigns  this  merry  monarch  bold. 
His  firm  belief  (  but,  oh,  how  brief  ) 

That  all  the  joys  with  which  he  knows 
The  world  doth  brim,  shall  on  for  him 

Forever,  as  the  river  flows. 

In  all  his  air  no  cloud  of  care 

Shuts  out  his  suri  of  happiness, 
And  chilling  grief  can  blast  no  leaf 

His  life's  young  Springtime  comes  to  bless. 
Blithesome  and  glad,  the  little  lad, 

For  watches  ever  at  his  side 
An  unseen  charm,  an  unfelt  arm, — 

A  mother's  love,  a  father's  pride. 

Soon  grief  and  pain  shall  fall  like  rain, 

And  sorrows  whelm  him  thick  and  fast, 
And  he  shall  yearn  for  the  return 

Of  sunny  days  so  long,  long  passed. 
In  many  years,  with  bitter  tears, 

The  lad  shall  learn  at  what  a  cost, 
What  tender  care,  how  deep  a  prayer, 

They  guarded  him  who  now  are  lost. 


SOME   MOSSY   BANK   MY  COUCH   MUST  BE.' 


VIII. 
DANDELIONS. 

Bright  suns  of  April,  glitt'ring  in  the  green, 
Thick-star  the  emerald  firmament  to-day. 

To-morrow  gleams  with  disks  of  silvery  sheen 
The  suns  of  April  are  the  moons  of  May. 


33 


IX. 
THE  REDWING'S  NEST. 

Near  where  the  muskrat  rears  his  dome 

And  cat-tails  lance  the  mere, 
The  redwing  builds  her  basket  home 

Of  grass  and  sedges  sere, 
And  warbles  from  the  swaying  reed 

All  through  a  summer's  day 
Her  bell-toned  note,  her  only  creed, 

So  happy  and  so  gay. 

Though  frail  the  lace-work  structure's  art, 

And  strong  the  rustling  gales, 
And  though  more  fateful  light' nings  dart 

Above  its  willow  pales 
Than  ruby  wing's  red  flashing  line 

From  raven  cloud  disband, 
She  dwelleth  safe  in  her  design, 

The  hollow  of  his  hand. 

Oh,  ye,  who  build  a  mansion  great, 

Set  high  upon  a  hill, 
And  pride  ye  on  your  high  estate, 

And  plume  ye  as  ye  will, 
Are  ye  as  happy  as  the  bird 

That  builds  beside  the  mere  ? 
For  I  have  surely  never  heard 

Your  praise  so  sweet  and  clear. 

34 


X. 
APPLE  BLOSSOMS, 

At  Mid-May  noon  the  old  trees  bask  and  doze 

Soothed  by  the  toiling  bees'  low  droning  hum, 
And  visions  of  long  vanished  Winter  snows 

To  their  pleased  dreaming  fancy  softly  come, 
Yet  half  awake,  stirred  by  a  passing  breeze, 

That  melts  their  fluttering  snow-flakes,  one  by  one, 
They  stretch  and  sigh,  and  then  as  dreamland  flees 

Blush  at  the  ardent  wooing  of  the  sun. 


37 


XI. 
WHEN  GRANDFATHER  SWORE. 

When  I  dug  up  his  garden  to  see  the  seeds  start, 
And  then  told  him  they  hadn't,  with  innocent  heart, — 
When  they  fired  on  the  Flag  and  Fort  Sumter's  brave  band, 
Then  my  grandfather  swore,  and  swore  loudly, 
"Good  Land!  " 

When  the  bank  which  had  held  his  small  earnings  in  trust 
Closed  its  doors  and  the  papers  reported  it  "  bust,'  '— 
And  the  year  the  potato  bug  plague  was  upon  us, 
In  the  heat  of  the  moment  he  said,   "  Mercy  on  us  !  " 

And  once  when  the  point  of  his  scythe  ploughed  the 

loam, — 

And  once  when  the  Great  Reaper's  sickle  struck  home, 
Unmanned  by  the  shock  of  the  sudden  despair, 
I  heard, — heard  him  say, — blame  him  not, — "I  declare  !  " 

But  his  oaths  were  all  sadly  repented  in  prayer 

And  the  things  that  he  swore  at  would  make  most  men 

swear, 

So  I  feel  that  the  Angels  who  make  it  their  care, 
Will  lightly  record  it  against  him  Up  There. 


XII. 
THE  BAY  PATH'S  END. 

The  snake-like  trail,  o'er  hill,  through  dale, 
Winds  to  a  mound  beside  the  sea 

O'er  which  the  white-winged  Gods  shall  sail 
From  their  far  land  of  mystery. 


Here  clustered  wigwams  thinly  smoked 

'Mid  fields  of  undulating  maize, 
And  here  the  arrow-maker  chipped, 

In  those  last  neolithic  days, 
The  flakes  of  milk-white  quartz  to  shape 

Keen-edged  and  barbed,  for  chase  or  fight,— 
To  stain  with  Narragansett  blood, 

Or  stop  the  wild-goose  in  its  flight. 
Here  Wampanoag  wampum  strung, 

Carved  from  the  blue-eyed  quahog  shell, 
Or  framed  the  birch-bark's  graceful  curves 

To  cleave  the  broad  Atlantic  swell. 
The  warrior  bent  the  tough  oak  bow 

With  tight-stretched  vibrant  deerskin  string, 
Or  decked  the  scalp-lock  with  the  plumes 

Far-borrowed  from  the  eagle's  wing. 


With  harsh-hued  war-paint  on  his  face, 

Dug  from  the  shore-side  beds  of  clay. 
A  wild,  fierce  silhouette  he  made 

Upon  the  headland  of  the  Bay. 
Here  Massasoit  saw  unmoved, 

The  Pale-face  paddle  to  his  shore  ; 
Here  met  the  Little  Captain  bold, 

And  smoked  the  peace-pipe  o'er  and  o'er. 
Here  where  still  from  the  white  sand  floor 

The  crystal  waters  bubbling  burst, 
The  hunted  Philip  knelt  one  day 

Within  the  wood  to  quench  his  thirst. 


To-day  no  signal  reads  the  ear 

In  fish-hawk's  cry  or  night-owl's  screech  ; 
The  Red-man's  spirit  stalks  unseen 

In  moonlight  eves  beside  the  beach. 


sleep  to  warrior  and  long  dreams, 
A  Happy  Hunting  in  the  West, 
A  swift  canoe  o'er  pleasant  streams, 
And  here  a  peaceful  Place  of  Rest. 


42 


XIII. 
THE   MILKMAID. 

She's  graceful  as  the  timid  fawn 
As  light  she  trips  across  the  lawn, 

With  milk-pail  swinging, 

Blithely  singing, 
In  the  glow  of  early  dawn. 

The  whole  day  long  you'll  hear  her  song, 
The  kitchen's  humble  crafts  among,— 

The  happy  fairy 

Of  the  dairy, 
Ignorant  of  ruth  or  wrong. 

And  when  the  shadows  softly  weave 
Their  web  about  the  dewy  eve, 

And  day  is  weary, 

Listen,  cheery 
As  a  wood-bird  can  conceive 

There  comes  the  fading  fields  across, 
Clear-ringing  from  the  echo's  toss, 

The  rising,  falling, 

Coaxing,  calling, 
Boss,  co-boss,  co-boss,  co-boss." 

45 


A  barnyard  fragrant  with  new  hay, 

A  milking-stool,  three-legged  and  gray, 

And  seated  on  it, 

With  her  bonnet 
Tossed  from  rippling  curls  away, 

With  cheek  against  the  inoolie's  side, 
With  face  half-turned  and  laughing-eyed, 

She  draws  the  tinkling, 

vSplashing,  sprinkling, 
Frothy,  foaming,  snowy  tide. 

So  here's  a  toast  we  will  not  pass, 

Come,  drink  and  drain  the  milk-brimmed  glass, 

Unto  this  healthy, 

Wise  and  wealthy, 
Early  rising  country  lass. 


XIV. 
THE  CATACOMBS* 

Through  long,  dim  corridors  whose  shadows  throw 
An  added  gloom  upon  the  pillared  stone 
Where  vault  on  vault  enwraps  the  crumbling  bone, 

The  mummied  form,  or  cell  of  hidden  woe, 

Soft-treading,  belted  forms  flit  to  and  fro, 
Or  chant  in  half-hushed  dreary  monotone 
That  haunts  the  hearer  with  its  ceaseless  drone, 

A  hymn  to  labor,  as  they  come  and  go. 


No  dark  and  dismal  caverned  chambers  these, 
Beneath  the  ancient  walls  of  harassed  Rome, 

But  white-rowed  domes  beneath  the  apple-trees, 

Among  whose  blossoms,  showered  like  breeze-tossed 
foam, 

The  steady  buzzing  of  the  busy  bees 
Betokens  hoards  of  amber  honey-comb. 


47 


XV. 
FAITHFULNESS. 

Time  heals  all  wounds  ;  great  sorrows  dim  ; 

The  poignancy  of  Death  is  dulled  ; 
The  tears  which  erst  o'erflowed  the  brim 

Are  dried  ;  the  heart's  keen  pangs  are  lulled. 
Yet  I  would  bear  the  throes  of  grief,— 

Would  suffer  for  a  love  long  lost, 
Forever,  than  court  sooth  relief,— 

A  moments  peace, — at  Memory's  cost ; 
Than  feel  Oblivion's  soft  caress, 

Betrayed  to  base  Forgetfulness. 


48 


XVI. 
AN  AIR  CASTLE. 

A  day-dream  scarcely  builds  so  slight 

A  structure  o'er  in  Spain, 
Or  chooses  such  an  airy  site 

For  its  idyllic  reign, 
As  that  half  hidden  by  the  elm's 

Wide-drooping,  bowered  retreat^ 
High  up  among  the  leafy  realms 

That  arch  the  village  street. 

The  golden  light  of  sunset  skies 

And  blackness  of  the  night, 
Their  offspring  cradle  in  this  wise,— 

Hence  take  their  fledgling  flight, 
And  who  below  a-watching  but 

With  wonder  would  declare 
A  Phoenix  flown  from  Lilliput 

Had  built  a  home  up  there. 

A  half-way  house  'tween  heaven  and  earth, 

Where  spirit  with  spirit  communes 
In  bird-song,  gay  with  gladsome  mirth, 

And  sweet  aeolian  tunes. 
Should  St.  Cecilia  from  her  dais 

Flit  down  on  earthborn  quest, 
She  well  might  choose  as  trysting-place 

The  oriole's  hanging  nest. 


XVII. 
BEAUTIFUL  MOONLIGHT. 

Yest're'en  I  walked  in  the  white  moonlight 

With  you,  dear,  at  my  side, 
With  your  hand's  caress  on  my  arm,  so  light, 
And  your  eyes  aglow  like  the  stars  of  night 

That  gleamed  in  the  heavens  wide. 

And  the  low,  sweet  tones  that  your  lips  did  please 

To  wreathe  with  your  kindly  smiles, 
I^ike  the  murmured  words  of  the  cooling  breeze 
To  the  list'ning  ears  of  the  eager  trees, 
Stirred  all  my  heart's  dark  aisles. 

My  eyes  on  you  were  as  stars  above  ; 

My  ears  as  the  myriad  leaves ; 
And  the  heart  you  felt  the  fierce  beating  of 
Enwrapped  you  and  held  you,  my  darling,  my  love, 

As  the  moonlight  the  world  inweaves. 

Oh,  the  tender  thrill  of  your  presence  there  ! 

Oh,  eve  that  hath  flown  too  soon  ! 
Though  the  days  that  come  are  gloomy  and  bare, 
A  vision  will  visit  my  sadness  whene'er 

Shines  the  light  of  the  magic  moon. 


XVIII. 
THE  HAY-MAKERS. 

Who  was  it  in  the  Springtime  trilled 
A  song  that  all  the  grass-blades  thrilled, 
And  made  them  yearn  to  reach  and  grow 
Up  to  the  joys  he  lauded  so  ? 

You  know,  I  think  ; 

'Twas  Bob-o-link. 

Who  was  it  in  the  evening  still, 

Down  in  the  mead,  or  on  the  hill, 

With  never  a  desire  to  shirk, 

Would  whet  the  scythe  for  morrow's  work, 

With  whip-poor-will, 

Poor-whip-poor-will  ? 

Who  was  it  that  with  shrewd  cocked  eye, 
Observing  dark-piled  cumuli, 
The  thunder-shower  prophesied  ? 
The  Quail  it  was  who  loudly  cried, 

Make  haste  !     More  yet ! 

More  wet !     More  wet  ! 

And  so  the  men  with  fork  and  rake 
Full  many  a  rounded  cock  did  make, 
While  homeward  rolled  each  dome-like  load, 
Within  the  barn-mow  to  be  stowed, 
Where  an  old  Owl,  white-barred  and  gray, 
Hoots,   "I — too  helped — to  make — the  hay.' 

53 


XIX. 
THE  HEART  OF  SUMMER. 

The  heart  of  Midsummer  is  beating  with  mine  ; 
Her  love  told  in  whispers, — the  breath  of  the  pine, 
Bach  nod  of  the  daisies,  each  curve  of  a  vine, 

Confesses  the  secret  to  me, 
As  resting  upon  her  fair  bosom  I  lie, 
Apart  from  the  world,  beneath  the  blue  sky, 
And  watch  the  foam-clouds  like  great  bergs  floating  by 

Over  an  aerial  sea. 

Bejewelled  with  lilies  of  workmanship  rare, 
A  garland  of  sweetest  wild  rose  in  her  hair,— 
So  fair  my  enchantress  beyond  all  compare, 

Each  glance  that  she  grants  is  a  boon. 
The  air  smiles  and  laughs  with  the  sunshine  and  birds, 
The  earth  tones  a  harmony  grander  than  words, 
The  sky  its  true  symbol  of  constancy  girds 

Around  us  the  long  afternoon. 

The  fragrance  of  countless  sweet  blossoming  things 
Bach  stir  of  her  vesture  enchantingly  flings 
About  me,  the  while  the  gay  bobolink  sings 

Of  all  her  voluptuous  charms  ; 
Then  softer  she  croons, — in  the  hum  of  the  bees, 
The  rustle  of  grasses,  the  swaying  of  trees, 
Warm  air  waves,  enwrapping  with  glamour  the  breeze, 

And  lulls  rne  to  sleep  in  her  arms. 

54 


XX. 
RED  RASPBERRIES. 

In  the  thicket  down  back  of  the  garden, 

Where  the  raspberries  flourish  and  spread, 
We  were  picking  a  dishful  for  dinner 

Of  the  ripest,  most  luscious  and  red. 
The  bees  discontentedly  grumbled, 

Interrupted  in  nectarine  sips, 
While  the  briars,  ungracious  and  surly, 

At  our  garments  gave  sharp,  vicious  nips. 

But  a  danger  more  dread  than  the  daggei 

Of  fuming,  infuriate  bee  ; 
More  sure  than  the  briar's  stiletto, 

Was  lurking  in  there  for  me. 
For  Cupid  that  day  was  out  hunting, 

His  bow,  it  was  shaped  like  her  lips, 
And  the  shaft  in  my  bosom  he  buried 

Was  one  of  his  love-poisoned  tips. 

You  know  them,  those  great  puckered  berries, 
Like  thimbles  of  ruby  embossed  ; 

Those  musk-flavored  globules  of  sweetness, 
That  epicures'  praises  exhaust, 


57 


You  know  how  a  blush  of  pure  pleasure 
Flushes  even  the  trained  finger-tips, 

And  only  a  sequence  of  color 
Protects  from  betrayal  the  lips. 

And  you'll  understand  how  it  happened, 

When  a  thorn  in  her  white,  dimpled  arm 
Caused  her  rose-tinted  lips  to  pucker 

With  a  quick  little  cry  of  alarm, 
That  I  should  mistake,  in  my  flurry 

(  The  wisest  will  make  just  such  slips), 
For  the  sweetest  and  ripest  of  berries  , 

Her  own  fair,  deceiving,  sweet  lips. 

The  stain,  it  was  not  of  the  juices 

Of  berries  that  tinted  her  cheek  ; 
The  glow  that  o'erspread  my  horizon 

Was  not  their  reflection  unique. 
Perhaps  it  was  twice  that  it  happened, 

I  wouldn't  say  how  many  trips  ; 
And  kisses  are  like  the  red  raspberries,— 

They  are  never  betrayed  by  her  lips. 


XXI. 

WADIN*. 

I  say,  wont  you  quit  your  gappin' ; 

Nothin's  the  matter,  you  fool. 
Haint  nothin'  great  goin'  to  happen 

'F  a  feller  plays  hookey  from  school, 

Been  down  to  the  frog-pond,  wadin' : 
Bet  you  wish't  you  was  along. 

Water  was  bully  'n  we  staid  in 

Till  we  heard  the  supper  bell  dong. 

Caught  a  whole  hatful  of  skaters  : 
Wasn't  they  kickin',  oh  my. 

Spotted  the  frogs  with  pertaters, 

'N  soaked  one  right  in  the  eye. 

D'ye  ev'  have  a  mud-turtle  grab  you, 
Grab  right  hold  of  your  heel? 

Just  wait  till  you  have  one  nab  you  ; 
Maybe  I  didn't  squeal. 

Don't  it  feel  good  to  wiggle 

Your  toes  way  down  in  the  mud  ; 
Guess  'twould  a  made  you  giggle 

When  Jackie  set  down  with  a  thud. 


59 


Lots  of  pollywogs  wogglin' 

An'  squirmin'  around  your  toes  ; 
Jackie  an'  me  got  to  jogglin' 

An'  spattered  up  orful  our  clo'es. 

Found  some  sweet  flag-root  growin' 
Over'n  the  .edge  of  the  wood. 

Had  to  wade  deep  when  we's  goin'  — 
Pants  rolled  up  high  as  we  could. 

Wasn't  it  fun,  oh,  crackee. 

Water  \vas  bully  an'  warm. 
But  that  little  sneak  of  a  Jackie 

Had  to  go  home  and  tell  mom. 

Bet  I  will  give  him  a  licking- 
Whoppers  all  went  up  the  spout. 

Ma  aint  so  green  as  a  chicken  ; 

Stockin's  was  on  wrong-side  out. 


XXII. 
IN  HAYING  TIME. 

Meadow-larks  make  mellow  warbling, 

Quails  are  whistling  in  the  wheat, 
When  across  the  fields  of  morning, 

Comes  afar  and  faint  the  beat 
Of  the  rhythmic  mower  clicking, 

Clicking,  clicking,  clicking  slow, 
As  the  swaths,  waist  high  and  luscious, 

Fall  in  many  a  rippling  row. 

Foot  by  foot  the  tide  that  billowed 

At  its  flood  at  matin  song, 
White-capped  by  the  ox-eyed  daisies, 

Fast  recedes  the  forenoon  long, 
Till  its  ebb  leaves  only  lapping 

Long,  low  breakers  sweeping  o'er 
All  the  flats,  and  stubble-pebbled 

Reaches  of  the  meadow  floor. 


61 


XXIII. 
SYLVAN  WILDS. 

Encircled  by  a  forest  no  woodman's  axe  hath  marred, 
There  lies  a  fairy  lakelet,  its  bosom  lily-starred ; 
Protected  and  secluded  by  odorous  monarch  pines, 
Whose  whisperings  only,  stir  it  in  rippling,  shim' ring 
lines. 

Its  clear,  bright  face  reflecting  the  twinkling  stars 

of  night, 
What  fleecy  clouds  of  noonday  pass  o'er  it  in  their 

flight, 
And  pines,  whose  shade  extending  beyond  the  bluffs 

that  rise, 
Form  scenes  of  sylvan  beauty  too  rare  for  common  eyes. 

The  alder  bushes  woo  it  along  the  Southern  shore  ; 
A  motionless  kingfisher  keeps  watch  and  warden  o'er 
The  troutlets  that  are  sporting  down  in  a  shady  deep, 
Beneath  the  stump  he  rests  on,  whereon  rare  mosses 
creep. 

Down  in  its  crystal  waters  a  lazy  pick'rel  glides, 
Or  watching  some  rash  insect,  a  bass  in  waiting  hides, 
With  fins  and  tail  slow  fanning,  beneath  the  water 

weeds, 
Till,  flash — and  splash, — and  ripples  go  circling  toward 

the  reeds. 

62 


In  sun-kissed,  reed-fringed  baylets  sweet  lilies  scent 
the  air, 

Tame  water-fowl  reposing,  fear  no  intruder  there, 

Of  all  life's  fragrant  mem'ries,  count  this  among  the 
first, 

To  kneel  and  kiss  those  waters,  to  quench  the  noon 
day  thirst. 

And  after  freely  feasting  from  rich-stored  blackb'ry 

vines, 

To  lay  upon  the  needles  beneath  the  murmuring  pines, 
And  listen  to  the  music  Aeolus  lightly  plays, 
Beside  the  fairy  lakelet,  in  lazy  Summer  days. 

And  in  the  rough  bark  cabin  to  sleep  'neath  fairy  spell, 
Soothed  by  the  peaceful  silence  and  whip-poor-will's 

"Rest  well;" 
Alone  ; — alone  with  Nature,  breathing  in  health  and 

rest, 
Feeling  the  breadth  of  freedom,  there  by  the  fair 

lake's  breast. 


XXIV. 
INDIAN  CORN. 

Up  o'er  the  hill  long  files  of  warrior  hosts 
Move  with  the  silent  stealth  of  midday  ghosts. 
The  rustlings  only  of  their  buckskin  dress 
To  keenest  ear  their  onward  sweep  confess : 
But  startled  eye,  across  the  landscape  sees 
Ten  thousand  plumes  a-nodding  in  the  breeze, 
And  gleams  of  sunshine  nicker  everywhere, 
Reflected  from  long  tufts  of  golden  hair, 
That  once  fair  Saxon  maidens  might  have  graced, 
But  dangle  now  from  each  fierce  foeman's  waist  ; 
A  band  of  warriors  of  the  tribe  of  Maize, 
With  scalps  at  belt,  from  one  of  their  forays 
Returning  down  the  Vale  of  Genesee, 
To  celebrate  the  feast  of  Victory. 


66 


XXV. 
THE  MOWERS'  SONG* 

Through  the  long  midsummer  day, 
Where  the  meadows  stretch  away, 
Men  are  out  a-making  hay. 
Hear  the  scythe  sing  merrily, 
Ker-wink,  ker-wee,  ker-wink,  ker-wee. 
Up  and  down  the  whole  broad  farm, 
Bended  back  and  bared  brown  arm 
Swing  the  blade  that  works  the  charm, 
Then  beneath  the  maple  tree, 
Ker-wink,  ker-wee,  ker-wink,  ker-wee 
Rings  the  stone  against  the  steel ; 
'Long  its  length  the  fingers  feel 
If  the  edge  from  point  to  heel 
Keen  for  the  clean  cutting  be  ; 
Ker-wink,  ker-wee,  ker-wink,  ker-wee. 
Down  the  hill  come  Jack  and  Jill 
With  the  pail  they  did  not  spill, 
Thirsty  mouths  with  cheer  to  fill  ; 
After  they  have  had  their  drink, 
Ker-wee,  ker-wink,  ker-wee,  ker-wink, 
With  a  wisp  they  wipe  the  blade, 
With  a  sweep  the  circuit  's  made, 
With  a  swish  the  grass  is  laid, 
In  long  windrows  down  the  lea  ; 
Ker-wink,  ker-wee,  ker-wink,  ker-wee, 
Step  by  step  the  mowers  go, 
Rythmic  to  the  swaths  laid  low, 
Towards  the  sunset's  reddening  glow, 
Till  the  day's-end  wearily 
Stills  the  last  ker-wink,  ker-wee. 


XXVI. 
THE  BUMBLE  BEE, 

That's  a  lusty,  roistering  fellow, 

He  tricked  out  in  jerkin  yellow 
And  black  velvet  breeches,  gay 

As  a  lord  in  court  array, 
And  he  carries,  with  a  swagger, 

'Neath  his  belt,  a  ready  dagger. 
He's  the  terror  and  the  pride 

Of  one  half  the  country  side, 
With  his  daring  mid-day  raids 

And  his  drunken  escapades. 
You  may  meet  him  by  the  river 

Where  his  gruff  "  Stand  and  deliver  !  " 
Floating  forth  upon  the  breeze, 

Frights  the  pale  anemones 
While  he  borrows,  willy-nilly 

A  year's  income  from  a  lily, 
Or  relieves,  with  reverence,  e'en 

Jack-in-pulpit  of  his  "  green." 
By  his  brazen  boldness  bent 

Clover  gives  up  every  scent, 
And  the  wild  rose  furious  flushes, 

Flooding  face  and  breast  with  blushes 
When  this  gallant  cut-throat  curses, 

Never  robs  he  ladies'  purses, 

68 


But  his  tribute  sweetly  sips 

From  the  fair  ones'  pretty  lips, 
Then  with  cap  a-rake  and  chuckle 

He  holds  up  a  honeysuckle, 
Takes  his  toll  with  boast  and  bluster 

From  a  rich  azalea  cluster 
And  receives  with  greatest  pleasure 

All  a  strawberry  blossom's  treasure  : 
Fills  his  pockets  with  the  gold 

In  which  formerly  had  rolled 
Those  young  Dives,  dandelions, 

Solomon's  own  worthy  scions. 
When  he's  rifled  all  he  cares, 

Back  he  comes  with  boisterous  airs, 
Roaring  forth  a  rousing  ballad, 

Swearing  these  his  days  of  salad, 
To  the  tavern  where  he  sups, 

Drinks  a  dozen  buttercups 
To  the  fortunes  of  the  road 

Till  he's  tipsy  as  a  toad, 
Then  he  mounts  the  board,  this  clown, 

('Tis  an  oak-leaf,  sere  and  brown) 
And  drawls  out  a  drinking  song, 

Arrant  rogue  as  e'er  went  wrong, 
And  when  he  has  tried  each  label 

Goes  to  sleep  beneath  the  table. 
Here's  a  cup  of  nectar,  then, 

To  the  king  of  highwaymen. 

69 


XXVII. 
SHALL  WE  FORGET? 

Shut  from  the  sunlight  and  the  open  air, 

Toward  which  each  heart-throb  leaps, — each 
instinct  yearns, 

Old  Alpha  Beta  chant  we  in  our  turns, 
Or  o'er  the  Gallic  Commentaries  glare  ; 
Or  in  tiered  cells  of  brick,  dim-eyed  we  stare 

At  Arab  hieroglyphs  till  fever  burns  ; 

In  crowded  factory  the  frail  form  learns 
The  Shuttle's  dreary  song, — the  Steam's  hoarse  blare. 


Shall  we  forget  the  old  humanities 

In  Ages'  lapse, — the  language  of  the  trees, — 

The  wind's  wild  speech,— the  ocean's  sounding 

hymn  ? 

To  Nature's  symbols  fair  our  eyes  grow  dim? 
And  deaf  our  ears  to  all  the  choral  throng,— 
The  blithe  bird's  note, — the  brook's  sweet  purling 
song  ? 


70 


XXVIII. 
IN  MEMORIAM. 

Come,  Memory,  let  Us  sit  beside  the  blaze  ; 

Hark  to  the  wind  outside  :      'tis  fearful  weather  ; 
It's  long  since  we  have  had  a  talk  together  ; 

I've  been  so  busy,  and  so  swift  the  days. 

I  know  why  you  have  called  to-night.     A  place 
Is  vacant,  and  I  need  not  ask  you  whether 
You  see  again  the  ring  upon  the  heather, 

Whose  merriest  link  was  her  fair,  laughing  face. 

'Twas  long  ago  ;  the  boys  and  girls  will  grieve  : 

And  you  must  call  upon  them  all  this  eve  ; 

There's  one  who  stood  a  friendship's  every  test, 
And  one  who  dearer  was  than  all  the  rest  ; 

Give  them,  what  I  would  fain  bear  in  your  stead, 

My  message,  with  the  message  of  the  dead. 


73 


XXIX. 
THE  CRY  TO  THE  SEA, 

A  breeze  from  the  sea  blew  over  the  marshes, 
The  cry  of  a  gull  skirled  harsh  on  the  ear, 

The  sound  of  the  waves  on  the  rocks  was  swelling 
And  the  smell  of  the  spray  was  as  salt  as  a  tear. 

A  lad  looked  off  with  a  gaze  of  yearning, 
Afar  o'er  the  seaweed  wall  that  lies  on 

The  ridge  that  shuts  out  the  sea  from  the  meadows, 
And  far  away  to  the  blue  horizon. 

"  Oh  if  I  only  were  free,  were  free, 

Free  as  the  gulls  to  fly  away, 
Seeking  a  fortune  over  the  sea, 
I  would  away  to-day,  to-day." 

He  leaned  on  his  scythe  as  one  lightly  dreaming, 
Nor  turned  to  glance  where  the  sea-wind  blows, 

Where  the  bushes  creep  to  the  marsh's  limit, 

Where  the  tufted  sedge  and  the  cranberry  grows. 

The  salt  grass  swathed  in  the  thin-laid  winrows 
Or  unmown,  bowed  to  the  wind's  own  will, 

The  taste  of  the  tide  holds  fast  in  its  veinlets 
But  the  lad  was  steeped  in  it  stronger  still. 

74 


Would  I  were  free  as  the  breeze  that  blows 
Over  the  billows,  tossing  foam, 

Far  and  wide  as  the  sunbeam  goes, 
Over  the  wide  world  I  would  roam. " 


Under  a  sun  that  knows  no  mercy 
Off  in  the  utmost  bounds  of  earth, 

A  traveler  lay  in  the  waste  of  fever 

With  a  paler  face  than  that  land  gives  birth. 

The  air  was  stifling  with  scent  of  spices, 
The  wavelets  lapped  on  a  coral  reef 

And  the  haggard  man  who  was  gazing  seaward 
Knew  that  his  time  was  very  brief. 

Listen  !     What  is  that  moan  so  weak  ? 

What  is  the  wish  breathed  forth  in  the  sigh  ? 
What  does  the  heart's  last  drop  so  seek  ? 

"  Oh,  could  I  only  go  home  to  die  !  " 


75 


XXX. 
BEYOND  THE  KNOWN, 

They  come  not  back  again  to  bring  us  news, 
Who  pass  the  barriers  of  that  country  fair, 
Where  Fancy  wanders  pleasantly  ;  of  where 
The  Summer  breeze  sings  low  as  wood-dove  coos, 
And  Silence  is  its  own  appointed  muse. 

Where  dreams  do  dwell ;  where  souls  do  yearn 

in  prayer 

To  be  ;  from  whence,  as  on  the  twilight  air 
Sweet  perfume  floats,  fond  longing  idly  woos. 
That  land  they  call,  who  are  not  bound  by  ties 
Of  close  relationship,  Illusion  ;  those 

Who  know  and  love  it  well,  the  Blest  Ideal. 
The  hint  of  which  in  all  true  poetry  lies  ; 
The  Heaven  toward  which  each  human  life- 
plant  grows 
From  out  its  darkened  earth-cell  of  the  Real. 


76 


XXXI. 
IN  BERRY  TIME. 

When  Summer  days  sleep  in  a  haze 

Of  sunlight,  warm  and  mellow, 
And  Autumn's  dawn  is  shedding  on 

The  leaves  a  glow  of  yellow, 
With  pails  a-swing,  down  past  the  spring, 

Where  willow  wands  hang  drooping, 
With  catbird  call, — with  leap  and  fall, 

A  merry  band  goes  trooping. 
No  slightest  breeze  strays  through  the  trees 

Where  harvest-flies  are  ticking, 
And  bird-songs  hush,  for  e'en  the  thrush 

Is  off  for  berry-picking. 
A  wood- path's  shade  leads  to  the  glade 

By  many  a  zigzag  turning 
Where  bushes  low  have  long  ago 

O'erspread  an  ancient  burning, 
And  set  a  feast  which  e'en  the  least 

May  share  in  bounteous  measure, 
Well  fit  to  lure  an  epicure 

From  artificial  pleasure. 


79 


Swift  fingers  loot  the  luscious  fruit 

Beneath  the  leaves  a-twinkling, 
And  pour  a  stream  of  jet-black  cream 

Into  the  pails  a-tinkling. 
The  bacchant  bee  drones  noisily 

Home  from  his  nectar-drinking, 
And  all  too  soon  an  afternoon 

Tips  westward  and  is  sinking. 
With  lips  a-stain,  home  through  the  lane 

A  barefoot  group  comes  creeping, 
With  briar's  brand  and  faces  tanned 

And  pails  filled  up  to  heaping. 


Fair  days  appear  in  youth's  bright  year 
Where  Memory  goes  a-tricking, 

But  o'er  the  rest  those  days  seem  blest 
When  came  the  berry-picking. 


XXXII. 
INDIAN  PIPE. 

Gone  are  the  savage  days  lang  syne, 

When  harsher  than  the  roar  of  flood, 
Or  prowling  wild-cat's  hungry  whine, 

The  war-whoop  chilled  the  settler's  blood. 
In  unknown  graves  in  field  or  glen, 

Where  once  they  roamed  in  beast-lent  garb, 
Beside  this  vanished  race  of  men, 

Lay  tomahawk  and  flint-hewn  barb. 
But  ponderers  o'er  the  days  of  yore 

May,  as  a  sign,  beneath  the  trees,— 
On  forest  glade's  great  wigwam  floor, — 

Still  see  the  warrior's  pipe  of  peace. 


81 


XXXIII. 
HIS  DAILY  BREAD. 

The  wild  azalea's  early  fruit ; 

The  tendrils  of  the  grape's  new  shoot  ; 
From  marshy  nook  beside  the  brook 

The  puck'ring  sweet  flag's  jointed  root. 

Wild  strawberries'  rich,  lip-staining  wine  ; 

The  rounded  leaf  of  greenbriar  vine  ; 
Nor  scorns  to  share  the  squirrels'  fare,— 

The  guarded  cone-seed  of  the  pine. 

Bark  from  the  yellow  birch's  twig; 

The  bud  and  leaf  of  sassafras  sprig ; 
And  'neath  the  mould,  more  prized  than  gold, 

Its  spicy  root  he  deigns  to  dig. 

The  ruby  drops  of  wintergreen  ; 

Its  tender  sprouts  of  reddened  sheen, 
That  garnish  glen  and  dale  and  fen, 

He  and  the  jay  and  partridge  glean. 

And  berries, — rasp,  and  blue,  and  black  ; 

I'  faith,  there  never  yet  was  lack 
Of  treasure  store,  the  country  o'er, 

For  bird  and  beast  and  Boy  to  sack. 

82 


The  bitter  bay  berry's  pellets  gray  ; 

The  wild  grape's  royal  purples  pay 
From  year  to  year,  a  tribute  dear 

Through  the  dominions  of  his  sway. 

Gray  marbled  root  of  fronded  brake  ; 

Wild  cranberries  from  near  the  lake ; 
An  apple-tree  invites  his  glee, 

A  trespass  and  a  forfeit  shake. 

The  acorn  from  its  graven  vase  ; 

The  hazelnut  with  auburn  face  ; 
The  walnut  eke,  when  missiles  seek, 

Descends  to  him  from  its  high  place. 

'Tis  thus  His  Majesty  is  fed, — 

That  Nature  grants  his  daily  bread,— 

Nor  doth  his  heart  spurn  works  of  art, 
For  when  the  Boy  is  safe  in  bed 

And  sleeps,  he  dreams  that  when  he  dies, 
He'll  find  up  there  above  the  skies, 

Amid  enough  of  other  stuff, 
A  jolly  lot  of  pumpkin  pies. 


XXXIV. 
THE  ABANDONED  FARM. 

The  farmhouse  old  hath  long  been  mould, 

On  the  sunken  stoop  the  black  snake  crawls, 

And  the  raspberry  bramble  at  will  doth  ramble 

And  cover  the  scar  of  the  cellar  walls. 

The  hewers  and  hoers  long  since  are  dead, 

The  living  are  sundered  and  scattered  and  fled, 

Hushed  is  the  clatter  and  clang  of  men  ; 

From  the  bearded  oak  a  crow  doth  croak, 

And  the  wildwood  claimeth  its  own  again. 

The  rail  fence  crumbles,  the  stone  wall  tumbles, 

And  ivy  and  woodbine  wreathe  and  wind, 

And  wrap  in  a  sheen  of  scarlet  and  green 

The  prison  chains  that  the  fields  confined. 

And  that  tiny  mite  of  an  auburn  sprite, 

The  chipmunk,  hoards  his  harvest  therein, 

And  plays  in  peace  where  the  forest  trees 

Shadow  and  sunlight  weave  and  spin. 

The  sumach's  maze  is  fanned  to  a  blaze, 

The  wild  grass  rustles  and  waves  and  croons, 

And  the  oak  leaves  sigh  at  the  passing  by 

Of  a  cloud  o'er  the  calm  of  the  August  noons. 

There  hums  a  tune, — an  old,  old  tune, 

Through  the  fragrant  fret  of  the  murmuring  pines, 

Where  the  gray  squirrel  frisks  and  frolics  and  whisks, 

Or  under  the  needles  for  treasure  mines. 

84 


The  fluffy  flock  doth  hide  from  the  hawk 

At  the  warning  cry  of  the  partridge  cock 

Where  the  blackberry -vine  doth  intertwine 

And  the  mullein  and  milkweed  interlock. 

A  russet,  gnarled  and  moss-ensnarled 

Hath  wandered  back  to  his  forest  kin, 

But  finds  no  friend  to  cheer  his  end, 

And  the  apples  are  sour  and  hardy  and  thin  ; 

The  woodpecker's  mark  is  hewn  in  its  bark, 

And  graven  deep  in  each  dying  bough, 

And  a  hoot-owl  basks  in  its  bole  and  asks, 

In  the  dusk  of  evening.   ' '  Who  ? ' '  and  ' '  How  ?  ' ' 

With  prying  approach  and  cunning  encroach 

The  wood  revenges  the  woodman's  axe, 

And  silent  and  slow  creeps  on  its  foe 

Till  the  clearing  is  lost  in  its  wildered  tracks. 

To  her  compact  true,  when  the  note  falls  due, 

Nature  forecloses  her  mortgage  of  old, 

And  man  hath  freed  by  a  quitclaim  deed 

All  right  and  title  to  have  and  hold. 

With  her  hand  and  seal,  beyond  repeal, 

By  another  lease  she  doth  entail 

To  bird  and  bee,  to  bush  and  tree, 

To  fox  and  squirrel  and  coon  and  quail. 

There  are  tenants  now  who  will  prune  and  plough, 

Who  will  guard  and  garner  with  tireless  arm, 

And  give  such  cheer  to  the  farer  here 

As  never  before  on  the  old  Bolles  farm. 

85 


XXXV. 
THE    KINGFISHER. 

Afar,  in  solitude,  in  state  like  one, 

Kingly  survivor  of  a  proud,  lost  race, 

Sits  the  great  sachem  in  his  lofty  place, 
As  motionless  as  the  dry  branch,  his  throne  ; 
His  feathered  scalp-lock  fiercely  outlined, — stone  ; 

The  war-paint,  red  and  blue,  on  breast  and  face  ; 

But  through  the  wilderness  with  silent  pace 
No  file  of  warriors  creep.     He  is  alone. 
Beneath,  the  eddying  current  rushes  by 

Between  black  alder,  brake,  and  berry  spray. 
Through  its  cool  depths  his  swift  spear-head  doth  fly 

With  sudden,  cunning  aim  at  troutlet  prey  ; 
Then,  restless,  tired  of  peace,  with  harsh  \var-cry 

He  wakes  the  echoing  wood,  and  steals  away. 


86 


XXXVI. 
THE  VILLAGE  IN  THE  PINES. 

Nestled  in  a  sunny  bay 

Of  the  woodland's  winding  way, 

Ivies  a  lonely  little  village,  strewn  with  cones : 

O'er  its  lanes  the  pine  trees  shed 

Carpets  silent  to  the  tread, 

And  the  robins  flit  above  moss-cushioned  stones. 

They  who  dwell  within  its  bounds, 
Quietly  beneath  the  mounds, 
Never  care  to  pass  beyond  its  walled  extremes. 
'Tis  the  homeland  of  the  Blest, 
'Tis  the  village  of  Long  Rest, 
And  of  peaceful  sleep  and  unawakened  dreams. 

Slanted  marbles  mark  the  miles 

Of  their  journey  otherwhiles, 

E'en  beyond  the  distant  bourne  of  four-score  years. 

Graven  granite,  scarred  by  Time, 

Tells  with  many  a  pious  rhyme 

How  they  fared  along  the  weary  vale  of  tears. 


89 


If  you  choose  to  wander  here 

In  the  Springtime  of  the  year, 

You  will  find  the  green  with  myrtle  all  arrayed. 

Here  the  fragile  moss-pink  spreads 

By  the  sleepers'  humble  beds, 

And  the  violets'  sweet  faces  cheer  the  shade. 

In  the  warm  still  afternoon 
You  may  hear  the  pine-tops  croon 
A  low  melody  that  thrills  some  long-lost  chord  ; 
'Tis  the  tale  of  weal  and  woe 
Lived  so  long  and  long  ago 
By  the  folks  who  sleep  beneath  the  blossomed  sward. 

Sometime  when  our  wand'rings  cease 

And  our  spirit  finds  release, 

To  our  fathers  gathered,  as  the  law  divines, 

We  will  sleep  the  long,  long  sleep, 

Where  the  moss  and  myrtle  creep, 

In  the  peaceful  little  village  'neath  the  pines. 


XXXVII. 
OLD  FASHIONED  THINGS. 

1  Old  times,  old  friends,  old  wine. "     What  dim  desires 
Awake !    What  pride,  what  vain  regret  there  rings, 
When  Memory  strikes  these  chords  upon  the  strings 

Tense-drawn  across  the  heart  of  human  lyres. 

To-day  may  reverent  homage  pay  its  sires, 
But  never  feel  the  thrill  their  music  brings, 
And  all  the  other  good  old-fashioned  things, 

That  light  anew  the  heart's  low  smouldering  fires. 

The  way  they  used  to  do  when  we  were  young  : 
The  tales  our  fathers  told,  the  well-sweep  high 

From  which  the  moss-grown  oaken  bucket  hung, 
The  blazing  back-log's  hospitality, 

The  spinning  wheel,  the  songs  our  mother  sung, 
The  worn  blue  China  plates, — and  you  and  I. 


93 


XXXVIII. 
"THE  MAIDEN." 

Beneath  the  Harvest  Moon  a  Maiden  dreams. 
Persephone,  fair  Ceres'  fair-haired  child, 
Whose  wealth  of  golden  tresses,  flowing  wild 

In  the  mild  moonlight,  shed  strange,  darting  gleams. 

What  dreams  ?    Of  Springtime's  laughter-loving  streams 
Of  fields  of  green  and  breezes  undefiled, 
When  with  young  June  were  pleasant  hours  beguiled, 

E're  led  astray  by  Pluto's  amorous  schemes. 

Alone,  forsaken  now,  in  sad  unrest, 

She  clasps  the  sheaf  and  sickle  to  her  breast  ; 
Her  day  of  happiness  seems  now  so  brief, 
So  near  the  harsh,  cold  days  of  bitter  grief. 

Dreaming,  she  sings  a  soft-toned  lullaby, 

Then  shivers  and  breathes  forth  a  long,  low  sigh. 


94 


GOD'S   FIRST  AND  SECOND  TEMPLES. 


XXXIX. 
GOLDEN-ROD, 

The  Autumn  is  the  twilight  of  the  year  ; 

Upon  the  fruits  of  Summer's  toil  we  sup, 
Then  rest  contented,  and  with  fund  of  cheer 

Slow  sip  the  vintage  from  a  brimming  cup. 

As  creep  the  darkening  shadows  o'er  the  lawn, 
Foretelling  Winter's  night-time,  still,  serene, 

The  sun  a  thousand  torches  breathes  upon 

And,  lo,  they  spring  in  flame,  to  light  the  scene. 

They  flood  with  radiance  all  the  Autumn  eves, 

And  holy  incense  offer  up  to  God, 
Till  Winter's  page,  the  Wind,  blows  out  and  leaves 

Us  all  to  dream.     So  dies  the  Golden-rod. 


97 


XL. 
NEW  ENGLAND. 

The  siren  call  of  Summer  Isles 

May  lure  the  fickle  feet  astray  ; 
Our  hearts  shall  beat,  despite  their  wiles 
Across  ten  thousand  desert  miles, 

As  waves  beat  on  thy  cape  and  bay. 

Let  tropic  suns  smile  on  soft  ease, 

Where  Lust  and  Languor  dull  recline  ; 
Thy  call  is  heard  far  over  seas, 
Thy  message  sent  on  every  breeze  ; 

We  name  Thee  ours  but  we  are  Thine. 

No  less  than  genial,  smiling  June, 

Thy  blustering  East  wind  thrills  and  warms  ; 
The  witch-like  music  of  its  rune 
Sets  tingling  nerves  all  in  attune 

With  Spirit  of  the  Winter  storms. 

Oh,  headland  bold  and  rock-strewn  shore  ! 

Billow  and  breaker  on  the  beach  ! 
What  courage  brewed  in  thy  uproar, 
What  energy  earned  from  the  oar, 

What  loyal  hearts  thy  trials  teach. 

Oh,  granite  hills  that  greet  the  sky  ! 

Oh,  forests  of  the  whispering  pine  ! 
Oh,  lakes,    Oh,  rivers  running  by  ! 
Who  dwells  beside  thee  but  shall  try 

His  utmost  powers  toward  the  divine  ? 

With  Energy  bred  in  Thine  air, 

Endurance,  from  Thy  Winter's  blast, 

Ambition,  from  thy  Mother's  prayer, 

Rash  he,  indeed,  who  shall  declare 

The  Great  Ones  gone,  shall  be  our  last. 

98 


XLJ. 
JACK  FROST'S  RETOUCHING. 

With  criticizing  air  of  connoisseur 

He  views  the  verdant  landscape  Summer  left, 

And  seizing  brush,  with  strokes  as  swift  and  deft 
As  master-brain  was  ever  wont  to  spur, 
He  whitens  all  the  foreground  and  the  fir,— 

Daubs  red  and  gold  the  maple  leaves  sharp-cleft, - 

Paints  yellow  all  the  sheaves  harvest-bereft, 
And  browns  the  grape-vine  garb  and  walnut  burr. 
A  touch,  a  dash,  with  artful  skill  applied  : 

And  ever  quick  the  slightest  fault  to  seek, 
He  scans  with  eye  not  wholly  satisfied 

The  maiden  Autumn,  too  demure  and  meek  : 
Then  with  a  careful  hand  and  full  of  pride 

He  tints  a  rosier  glow  upon  her  cheek. 


101 


XLII. 
THE  LITTLE  BROWN  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL. 

Far  away  from  the  smoke 

That  the  pure  air  doth  choke, 
And  the  noise  that  doth  peacefulness  kill, 

Where  the  road  winds  between 

Fair  pastures  of  green, 
Stands  a  little  brown  house  on  a  hill. 

Mansions  great  and  stone-built, 

And  embellished  with  gilt, 
May  the  pride  of  the  moment  fulfil, 

But  the  heart  will  hark  back 

When  the  nerve  strings  are  slack 
To  that  little  brown  house  on  the  hill. 

By  the  shaky  old  stile 

Simple  daisies  still  smile, 
And  the  yarrow  creeps  close  to  it  still, 

But  no  smoke's  floating  South 

From  the  chimney's  broad  mouth 
Of  the  little  brown  house  on  the  hill. 

Near  the  straight  garden  walk 

Grows  the  tall  hollyhock, 
And  the  lilac  blooms  fragrance  distil, 

But  there  rings  forth  no  horn 

And  the  life  is  all  gone 
From  the  little  brown  house  on  the  hill. 


102 


There's  a  creak  to  the  door, 

And  a  bare  oaken  floor 
When  once  you  have  passed  the  worn  sill, 

And  the  feet  it  once  pressed, 

They  have  long  been  at  rest 
By  the  meeting-house  over  the  hill. 

Underneath  the  well-sweep 

Where  the  green  mosses  creep, 
Lies  the  water  as  clear  and  as  still 

As  when  feet  long  ago 

Pattered  slow  to  and  fro 
With  the  buckets  to  empty  and  fill. 

In  the  meadows  the  cows 
In  the  Summer  still  browse  : 

Down  the  hillside  tink,  tinkles  the  rill  : 
And  the  robins  still  sing 
From  their  apple-tree  swing, 

And  the  bob-o-links  twitter  and  trill. 

And  when  bare  branches  show 
'Gainst  the  sunset's  red  glow, 

And  the  wind  whistles  bitter  and  chill, 
Then  the  snow  blanket  weaves, 
And  tucks  warm  to  the  eaves 

The  little  brown  house  on  the  hill. 

When  old  ghosts  stalk  abroad 

At  your  memory's  nod, 
How  the  senses  once  more  softly  thrill 

With  a  faint,  far-off  joy  : — 

You're  the  ghost  of  a  boy 
In  the  little  brown  house  on  the  hill. 


105 


XLIII. 
ROBINSON   CRUSOE. 

No  single  champion,  with  a  peerless  lance 
Upholds  the  banner  of  thy  fame,  Defoe, 

But  dare  a  sneering  cynic  look  askance, 

And  thousands  wrangle  for  a  chance  to  throw 
The  glove  of  combat  in  his  face.     For  lo, 

The  company  that  read  thy  rude  romance,— 

The  youthful  minds  its  bold  event  enchants, 
Like  Jason's  fabled  serpent  teeth  upgrow 

Into  an  army  even  Death  in  vain, 

With  his  grim  sword-scythe's  heartless  sweep 

hath  mown, 
All  ready  art  and  armor  to  employ 

In  thy  defence,  \vho  modelled  with  thy  brain, 
In  form  more  during  than  Carrara's  stone, 
The  spirit  of  adventure  in  a  boy. 


1 06 


XLIV. 
ROMA. 

What  might  was  Thine  who  not  alone  Thy  day 
Of  pride  ruled  o'er  with  vast  supremacy, 
When  nations  at  Thy  word  bent  humble  knee, 

And  none  refused  Thy  tribute  stern  to  pay  : 

But  who,  now  Ages  mock  Thee  and  Thy  sway, 
Mistress  no  longer  over  land  and  sea, 
Known  only  through  the  tomes  of  History, 

An  empire  fallen  into  dim  decay, 

Art  greater  yet  than  ever  Thou  hast  been  : 
O'er  tribes  barbarian  still  retain  Thy  power  : 

Whose  voice  sonorous,  heard  above  their  din, 
Christens  the  forest  tree  and  frailest  flower  : 

And  curbs  and  drills  with  Thy  strict  discipline, 
The  untamed  School-boy  many  a  weary  hour. 


107 


NOVEMBER. 

The  golden  light  of  Indian  Summer  setting, 

Gray  twilight  creeps  abroad  ;  the  furred  ones  drowse 
To  their  long  sleep  that  knows  no  vain  regretting ; 

The  wind  sighs  through  the  leafless  forest  boughs. 
Hush  !—     Then  the  bugle-blast,  with  loud  repeating, 

Of  that  fierce  Huntsman,  Boreas,  mingling  makes 
With  yelping  of  the  sky-pack,  Southward  fleeting 

Through  blinding  snow-fog,  from  the  Northern  lakes. 
The  Harvest  Feast  a  little  while  amasses 

Good  cheer,  and  flings  the  shivering  Year  a  bone  ; 
Then  Winter's  wand  upraised  makes  magic  passes, 

And  all  the  earth  is  turned  to  silent  stone. 


108 


XLVI. 
THE  FOUR  WINDS* 

March  gales,  with  ruddy,  puffing  cheek, 

That  whirl  wayfarers'  hats  away, 
And  then  with  fierce  derision  shriek, — 

Wild  as  the  hares  of  March  at  play  ; 
The  winds  that  veer,  and  chase  the  vane 

Till  its  own  mind  'twill  not  aver, 
And  aerate  the  April  rain 

With  incense  of  earth-life  astir  : 
That  kiss  the  mayflowers  fugitive, 

Then  on  my  cheeks  and  forehead  fawn  ; 
Their  fickleness  I  still  forgive,— 

Their  charms  remembered  when  they're  gone. 

I  love  the  wind  that  waves  the  grass 

In  Summertime,  in  billows  green, 
Or  wafts  with  many  a  magic  pass 

The  fragrance  it  has  paused  to  glean, 
From  woodland  blossoms,  fair  and  sweet, 

Or  snatched  unbidden  from  the  rose, 
Across  the  senses,  fain  to  greet 

An  opiate  of  such  kind  repose  ; 
Or,  in  its  might,  so  swift  and  strong, 

An  Ariel  of  unfancied  form, 
With  rush  as  of  an  unseen  throng, — 

The  herald  of  the  thunder-storm. 

The  wind  that  shakes  the  walnuts  down 

And  mourns  its  deed  through  barren  boughs  ; 

Then  drives  in  ranks  of  rustling  brown 
The  listless  leaves  to  mad  carouse  ; 


in 


Now  casts  the  great  ships  on  the  rocks, 

In  equinoctial  fits  of  rage, 
Now  yearns  for  Summer's  perfumed  locks, 

Now  dreams  of  Springtime's  playful  age. 
Yet  all  its  moods  accord  with  mine ; 

I  dream  again  of  days  gone  by, 
Then  long  to  buffet  Fate's  design, 

Aspire,  despair,  laugh  long  and  sigh. 

But  best  of  all  I  love,  perhaps, 

The  wind  of  Winter,  wild  and  weird, 
That  all  the  earth  in  snow-folds  wraps, 

Or  sweeps  bare  hillsides  with  its  beard. 
That  drives  unbridled,  all  unchecked, 

That  mad  white  steed,  the  racing  sleet, 
Whose  dripping  flank  the  way  hath  flecked, 

And  hid  the  trace  of  muffled  feet  ; 
Or  with  its  piercing,  drearsome  whine 

Betrays  the  frost-wolf  at  the  door, 
And  sends  a  shudder  down  the  spine 

Of  hearth-side  listeners  with  its  lore  ; 

That  whistles  with  so  shrill  and  sharp 

A  note,  that  earth's  cheeks  chill  and  blanch, 
And  plays  a  sad  aeolian  harp 

On  every  brown  and  barren  branch  ; 
That  sends  a  thrill  of  joy  and  fear 

To  those  that  list  and  learn  and  live,— 
A  yearning  for  the  past ;  a  tear 

For  all  that  friends  and  memory  give. 
Oh,  Winds  of  Heaven,  blow  and  blow, 

Where'er  thou  listeth  ;  chant  thy  rune  ; 
All  men  must  hearken  ;  some  may  know 

The  thrill  of  answering  chords  in  tune. 
112 


BITTER  COLD   ON  THE   BARREN   LEA. 


XLVII. 
THE  REVELER. 

Jack  Frost  was  out  on  a  spree  last  night, 

And  painted  the  whole  of  the  countryside  white. 

He  pinched  a  late  wayfarer  well  by  the  nose, 

He  tweaked  at  his  ears  and  he  trod  on  his  toes. 

He  whispered  a  word  in  the  last  Rose's  ear 

So  cold  that  she  shivered  and  withered  with  fear. 

Then  off  to  the  forest  he  hastily  rushed 

And  squeezed  the  trees  so  that  the  Maple  leaves 

blushed. 

He  split  all  the  hazlenut  burrs  open  wide, 
And  cracked  the  fat  hickory  nuts  hard  in  the  side  ; 
Maliciously  set  all  the  sumachs  ablaze, 
And  locked  up  the  crickets  in  underground  ways. 
In  fact,  he  committed  about  every  crime, 
And  had  what  he  called  just  a  jolly  good  time, 
Till  the  morning  at  last  put  an  end  to  his  fun, 
And  he  was  placed  under  arrest  by  the  Sun, 


XLVIII. 
SPARKS  IN  THE  CHIMNEY. 

I  sit  and  watch  the  sparks  fly  up  the  chimney. 
The  long-pent  soul  of  the  wood  is  flitting  back 

To  its  home  with  the  stars  ; 
The  stars  that  the  oak  in  its  strong  young  days 

looked  up  to 
And  whispered  to  in  the  cool  peace  of  the  nights, 

When  the  heavens  beamed. 

Dying  now  ;  its  trunk  but  a  crackling  ember ; 
Still  all  aglow  with  the  heat  of  life's  last  sap, 

Their  image  shines 
Still  bright  and  clear  through  the  smoke-mist  soon 

concealing 
All  else  of  earth  from  its  eyes  and  mind  and  heart. 

See  the  sparks  !     See  the  stars  ! 

So  I,  when  Death's  Winter  drearily  comes  a-stealing, 

And  the  flames  of  life  burn  out  in  the  battered  trunk, 
Shall  show  how  true 

By  the  murmured  word,  by  the  thought  that  glim 
mers  brighter, 

By  the  call,  and  the  prayer  flitting  up  to  God, 
Was  my  heart  to  you. 

116 


XLIX. 
A  SEASIDE  VILLAGE. 

Beneath  an  arch  of  elms,  grass-bordered  streets 
Where  buttercup  with  dandelion  competes 
Who  nearest  to  the  danger  line  shall  grow, 
Where  'customed  footsteps  patter  to  and  fro  ; 
And  grown  to  place  along  their  quiet  way, 
With  back  to  wind  and  facing  toward  the  bay, 
The  low-built  cottages,  with  roof  and  wall 
The  color  weather  paints  both  great  and  small ; 
Huge  sea-shells  Neptune  once  held  to  his  lip, 
At  corners  four  now  catch  the  gutter's  drip ; 
A  turtle's  back  holds  many  a  flowering  stalk, 
And  coral  sculpture  decks  the  garden  walk, 
Where  maiden  ladies  move  with  pensive  tread 
And  dream  of  one  who  laid  his  youthful  head 
On  pillows  white  like  this,  and  fell  asleep 
Beneath  the  waves,  in  Indian  waters  deep. 
What  wonder  that  the  seas  from  here  to  him 
Are  salt  as  tears  ;  that  still  the  eyes  grow  dim 
As  Memory  whispers  of  the  hopes  forgot 
When  typhoon  cables  cut  and  lover's-knot. 


119 


The  walls  that  now  so  long  a  fearless  front 

Have  outward  turned  against  the  tempest's  brunt 

And  blustered  threat  and  loud-outspoken  boast, 

As  fierce  it  stalked  all  up  and  down  the  coast, 

Bedecked  within  with  many  an  ornament 

By  South  Sea  isle  or  Arctic  cavern  lent  ; 

The  spotted  cowry  and  the  sea-beans  dark  ; 

The  fragile  nautilus, — that  fairy  ark  ; 

Rude  idols  of  the  fur-clad  Esquimaux  ; 

Grim  war-clubs  from  the  wilds  of  Borneo  ; 

Squat  Buddhas,  silent  o'er  the  hearth's  bright  fires 

As  centuries  ago  o'er  suttee  pyres  ; 

The  polished  whale's-tooth,  finely  tattooed  o'er 

With  fancies  odd  as  sailor's  arm  e'er  bore, 

Or  carven  into  many  a  polished  frame, 

Or  feudal  puppets  of  the  checkered  game ; 

And  little  barkentines,  full-rigged  and  taut,- — 

Model  perchance  of  one  whose  timbers  rot 

Ten  times  ten  fathoms  deep,  where  fishes  spawn 

Among  the  spars  that  birds  once  nested  on  ; 

And  treasure  chests  of  camphor  wood,  inlaid 

With  ebony  and  ivory,  and  made 

In  the  long  hours  of  calm  below  the  Line, 

Where  glassy  sea  and  glaring  heaven  shine, 

Or  'tween  the  watches,  filled  with  little  cheer, 

The  idle  hours  of  many  a  lonesome  year 

When  whittling  winged  the  thought  to  wife  or  maid, 

And  e'en  at  times  the  brain  from  madness  stayed 

120 


In  the  long  monotones  of  day  and  night 
And  sea,  with  nothing  else  in  sight 
But  phantoms  of  a  village  church  and  green, — 
A  little  cot, — a  mother's  tender  een. 


Down  where  the  waves  roll  up  along  the  strand, 

And  leave  upon  the  whitened  slope  of  sand 

A  tangled  twist  of  seaweeds,  soft  and  rare, 

Combed  by  the  breakers  from  some  mermaid's  hair, 

Or  riches  fair  in  gold  and  silver  shells, 

Or  music  shut  in  lime-encrusted  bells, 

Or  some  strange  monsters  sacrificed  to  Earth, 

Like  evil  genii  of  the  water's  birth  : 

With  cordage  strewn,  and  nets  and  lobster-pots, 

And  upturned  keels  beset  with  leprous  spots 

Of  barnacle,  that  fungus  of  the  sea,— 

To  boats  what  mistletoe  is  to  the  tree, — 

Storm-beaten  wharves,  the  land's  adopted  capes, 

Stretch  seaward  welcome  hands  to  whom  escapes 

The  wind's  wild  wrath,  the  reef's  dark  treachery, 

And  all  that  threats  who  go  down  to  the  sea  ; 

Or  wave  the  last  farewell  to  outward  bound, 

When  sails  are  set  and  creaking  capstan  wound. 

Here  oil-skinned  fisher-folk  scowl  at  the  sky, 

And  foretell  weather  with  a  cast  of  eye, 

Or  leaning  'gainst  the  rock-embedded  piles 

Spin  wondrous  yarns  of  other  where  and  whiles, 

And  bare-legged  urchins,  silently  discreet, 


121 


Land  now  and  then  a  chogset  at  their  feet. 


Spry  catboats  down  the  bay  are  coming  back 
The  zigzag  course  of  many  a  shortened  tack  : 
Or  left  becalmed,  flap  like  a  wounded  wing 
The  futile  sail,  till  breezes  succor  bring  ; 
And  far  across  the  sound  a  liner  sends 
A  puff  of  smoke  where  sky  and  ocean  ends  : 


Along  the  shore,  where  ripples  run  and  break 
Upon  the  sandy  flats  in  endless  wake 
At  ebb  of  tide,  sandpipers  stalk,  and  crows 
Caw  gruffly  o'er  the  prize  the  wavelet  throws 
Up  toward  the  pebbled  beach  ;  the  sea-gull's  shriek 
Sounds  like  the  whirling  pulley's  labored  creak 
When  halliards  tighten,  in  stong  hands  held  fast, 
And  gaff  and  sail  creep  slowly  up  the  mast  : 
His  shadow  glances  o'er  the  fretted  foam 
And  Cancer  scuttles  to  his  rockweed  home  ; 
Low,  twisted  cedars,  hung  with  shredded  lace, 
Behind  the  rock- walled  Coast  the  tempests  face  : 
A  jagged  point  upholds  a  beacon  light 
Above  a  rounded  tower  of  ghostly  white ; 
And  when  the  muffling  fog  flings  wide  its  arms 
An  unseen  horn  blurts  forth  its  hoarse  alarms. 


Forth  from  these  wharves  a  thousand  men  set  sail, 
And  tried  their  canvas  stout  on  every  gale  ; 


122 


From  every  gulf  the  seven  lands  half  hide, 
A  soul  has  for  this  quiet  haven  cried  ; 
To  this  the  merchant  of  the  India  trade 
Returned  whene'er  a  fortune  fair  was  made  ; 
To  this  the  captain  and  the  whaler's  crew, 
When  all  their  perils  were  gone  safely  through, 
And  four  long  years  had  sped  the  exile  term, 
Came  home  with  hold  full-stowed  with  barrels  sperm. 
Its  pastures  green,  red-dotted  with  the  kine, 
Between  gray  walls  embossed  with  briar  and  vine : 
Its  woodland  paths  where  Youth  was  wont  to  stray 
And  gather  fragrance  in  the  month  of  May, 
Or  share  the  acorns  scattered  of  the  oak 
In  Autumn  days  with  nimble  squirrel  folk, 
And  list  the  pines'  low  whisper  to  the  breeze 
Of  wonders  fair  as  wishes,  over  seas  : 
Its  quiet  streets,  where  in  the  first-love's  charm 
He  lingered  homeward  with  her  on  his  arm 
From  pious  worship  on  the  Sunday  morn, 
Or  from  some  evening  frolic, — husking  corn — 
Or  quilting  party — when  the  midnight  air 
Awoke  to  mingled  song  and  laughter  rare  ; 
All  call  the  traveler  with  a  siren's  power 
Home  to  the  haunts  of  Youth's  short  happy  hour, 
And  every  clime  gives  back  its  borrowed  brood 
Except  the  sea,  which  keeps  its  tithe  for  good. 
Ah,  he  shall  find,  who  loves  to  linger  here, 
Traditions  salted  in  the  atmosphere 

125 


As  thickly  as  the  herring  and  the  cod 

When  seine  and  line  do  well  the  deep  defraud. 


A  dreamy  air  seems  o'er  the  town  to  croon, 
The  sunshine  sleeps  the  long  still  afternoon, 
And  shadows  of  the  past  seem  to  unfold 
Full  many  a  tale  of  olden  time  untold. 
The  wanderer  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  life, 
Come  safe  to  port  here  after  all  the  strife, 
May  think  himself,  aye,  more  than  three  times  blest, 
At  harbor  in  this  quiet  place  of  rest. 


126 


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